Promptly Served
by One Wish Magic
Summary: A series of prompts featuring the life and times of our favourite Winchester men and the people closest to them.
1. Dean: Blind

_So this is largely experimental and ultimatly nerve wracking but here goes. I've seen a lot of people doing Supernatural drabble challenges on here and I must admit, it seems like a lot of fun, but I wasn't sure how to get into it._

_I have a horrible tendency to ramble so I knew i'd never be able to fit all I wanted to say in 100 words; i'm not that good at brevity :') so I set myself the challenge of 1,000 and still went over by 285 words :') opps._

_I guess the most entertaing part about prompts is seeing how people interprit the word. So here is my interpretation of blind. I don't know how people will react, so this is sort of testing the waters._

_I usually like to be more prepared in my writing, but this is litrally the work of an hour or two last night, which is why it makes me so nervous posting. But maybe the point of prompts is impulsive writing? I don't know. Hopefully it's okay._

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><p><em><strong>Blind<strong>_

Dean Winchester knew his brother better than anyone else in this corrupt world. Better than John. Sometimes better even than Sammy knew himself. The good, the bad, and the freakishly outlandish. What buttons to press in the eternally rewarding pursuit of riling his composure; how to coerce the indisputable intelligence of their outfit into being played by the elders whims and fancies, while still feigning to Stanford's best, a state of free will election, but most prominently; when life necessitated the surrender of untouchable ficade, morbid and binding humour, and iron-willed masculinity, Dean knew instantly how to reinstate the reprieve of a role he had been born to inhabit, the comforter, the protector: the big brother. So yeah, he knew Sam, or at least, that was what he had thought.

So how could he have been so blind?

Sam's personality and temperament paid homage in great semblance to the vibrant dusty volumes he so passionately pursued. The kid was a wealth of honour, emotion, philosophy, internalization and calamity, all one had to do was read him. And boy could Dean read him! The written word had never riveted him as it did Sam, but yet the story of his younger brothers soul engrossed him like no other.

There was one time, out in Illinois some 12 years past, when, while servicing their artillery after a big hunt, John found the firing clip of his favoured revolver damaged, marking the veteran tool useless. In the chaos of the previous night, any one of them could have been responsible. Dean knew it was Sam. Why? The kid had taken an hour long shower (Dean supposed its significance to stem from some trash about cleansing the body of sin). That, and the look in his eyes. A rabbit in the headlights indeed. Guilt did great disservices to the sensitive nature of Sam Winchester.

So Dean had taken the rap, of course, and earned himself a few days in the dog house for his heroism. But it had been worth it, and not exclusively for the reason that Sam subsequently had owed him big time.

So why then, had it taken a freaking Angle Of The Lord to enlighten him?

Hell was both literal and relative, and for an in-correspondent time the brothers had inhabited its guises body and mind; heart and soul. One bound to wander the earth, beseeching instead the absolution of hell-fire. One, in the preservation of love, forced to endure tortures beyond bodily destruction. Both encounters had left their mark. Both men had their scars.

They were damaged goods, now and forever. But this – this new _devilry _… this was above and beyond. Did suffering, anguish and a self conviction of askew morality negate the crime? _Could_ they? Right now, Dean didn't know. He had never been more uncertain in his life.

'_Stop him, or we will_' had been Castiel's imposition. But stop him from what, exactly? _Hunting_ was a '_dangerous road_,' yet Dean did not see any intervention or rehabilitation programs for that. Then came the cruel irony of revelation. Armed with a restless conscience, growing unease and the angles monotone directives, Dean had drove 60 miles: 60 miles to devastation.

If there was one thing the Winchester's prided themselves upon in the vices of their incongruous, eccentric and ultimately self-destructive lives, it was their humanity. That sliver of moral essence which drove them to forsake the insurance of their own lives and take up the defence of a stranger. The one virtue nestled in the heart of the otherwise villain.

It wore Sam's face, but it was not Sam. Not that creature which had executed an exorcism with its _mind_, and kept company with a demon. Not just any demon; _Ruby_. It was not Sam, because that thing was not human, and the one thing Sam would never, _could_ never, renounce was his humanity. Hell would perish to the persuasion of ice first.

And that had been Dean's first oversight.

Then came the lies, the absences, the anger and mistrust. Forty years in Hell and Dean was illiterate, for Sam abruptly was as a foreign language to him.

Sam thought his brother slept peacefully when he stole away into the secrecy of the night, little knowing that Dean had not secured peace or rest enough since his first glorious rebirth into liberty. There were more prevalent concerns which staved off sleep in the lonely hours than just the ghosts of horrors that nightmares brought, and all of them featured his brother. He could have pursued Sam, there had been ample opportunity. But each time he'd defected. Why? What had he been afraid of? The answer to that was self evident, he had been afraid of the truth. Deep down, he had known he didn't _want_ to know.

Sam swore to him that he would surrender the use of his powers, and Dean wanted to believe him, more than he had wanted anything else in his life. Hell for a while, he had even convinced himself that he did. But the evidence was undeniable; Sam was a changed man.

Dean knew of his betrayal, his commitment to extra curriculars, the influence of his corrupt mentor. Knew and resented. Guilt was like a toxin to his brothers sensitive soul, an incapacitating agent, aroused by the slightest deviancy. So where was that remorse now?

He knew where accusation lay for his brothers transition. How she had wormed her way back into his life again, taking advantage of his defeat for her own ends, and there she had remained: lecherous parasite; puppet master. There were consequences to fraternizing with a demon, especially one as unpredictable and uncohesive as Ruby. And the inescapable reality of being ignorant to her motive, only graduated her as a more prominent threat.

Often fear gives speed to our wild imaginations, coining scenes which reduce even the atrocities of fickle truth, to a more desirable scene by comparative. But not even that generalization was fail-safe. No matter how much one man implored it to be true.

Dean had made the necessary connections, of course he had. If Demon blood was the root of this abhorrent affliction … well then the contingency stood to reason. But the distinction between knowing and witnessing was paramount. _Knowing_, he could still cheat himself into the conviction that the brother he had grown up with and the man he admired, resided still within that shell, weak, oppressed but still alive, though the comforting delusion disintegrated hourly. Witness meant the renouncement of hope.

Starved and half crazy with addiction, Sam had not been able to resit when demon blood had been spilled in the foray. The crimson liquid still dripping from his chin, he had turned to regard Dean and Castiel, territorial, a predator guarding it's prey. But belying his stance was the emotion in his eyes. There was the remorse Dean had been so long searching for.

And now they were driving to Bobbies. Just the two of them. An echo of times gone by.

Sam's wrists and ankles were bound as he sate alone upon the back seat. Dean cannot even remember whose protection such measures were observed to ensure; his own or Sam's. There is blood still dried upon his chin and the sight of it makes Dean sick to the core. Everything's a mess.

Sam's voice knows only two words:

"I'm sorry." And he repeats them over and over.

Dean knows he is. Knows it with all his heart, but it doesn't change anything.

Blindness is not solely a physicality, because Dean has watched over Sam his entire life, and he never saw this coming. _Love_ is a blindness.

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><p><em>We are often blind to the mistakes and self destructive habits and actions of the ones we love. Sometimes until it's too late.<em>

_Thank you very much for reading._

_Your veiws would be most welcome if you feel up to giving them._

_One Wish Magic_


	2. Sam: Control

_Okay, I amend. I'm even too long winded to write a story contained within a thousand words. So now I'm working to between 1-3,000. Haha, who am I kidding :') But writing prompts is amazingly fun, and considerably addictive._

_I think I forgot to specify in my last note. But i do not own Supernatural, nor make any profit beyond my own enjoyment._

_So this one features some Dark!Sam (or so i've seen people write it). I always thought his and Ruby's relationship was complex, on some levels like two lovers, on others like a student and teacher, and then on others like a mother and her infant, so i tried to capture the convoluted nature of it._

_Set during the four months (earth time) that Dean was in hell._

_I was one of those people who honestly thought Ruby was good deep down. Stupid right? :') and then the last episode of season 4, bam! Genuine suprise. Anyway, I've wittered on enough. Hope you enjoy._

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><p><strong>2. Control<strong>

He pushed past the barrier, forcing his will outwards in an ever expanding field.

It required precision and intense focus: teasing into elasticity something which was confined by natural constitution. It also demanded rigorous discipline and stamina to alter life's molecular structure; imposing upon cells and particles alike, to imbue or else become effected by a surge of psychokinetic energy, which possessed all the timidity of a punch. It necessitated much longer than three weeks to learn how to satisfactorily harness. And yet, here he was.

The half-starved flames swaying listlessly in the wasted hearth provided the only source of illumination in the deplorable shell of a house. A world as vapid as himself. Not even the presence of stars could be accounted for in the oppressive sky, visible through the deteriorated beams. A new moon was waxing. It's beginning always the darkest portion of the cycle.

A little removed from the seat of action, and wreathed in shadow, Ruby watched him hungrily. A master overseeing the culminate efforts of her dark protégée, a mother watching over her child with perverse nurture, as Sam strived for his first successful exorcism. There was something of sadistic satisfaction in her demeanour.

And silhouetted against the sanguine glow, convulsing intermittently, hands and feet bound to the limbs of an iron-framed chair, and encircled by a memory constructed devils trap, sat the demon he was endeavouring to vanquish; wearing the meat suit of a chiropractor.

Sam pushed harder and further, infusing a greater proportion of raw power into the foray than he had ever previously dared, more than was advisable – reckless as to losing himself along the way. He was already encroaching upon his limit, but yet his herculean effort was rendering no effect, the son of a bitch _still_ laughed unperturbed: a wet, gurgling, chocking cackle.

"Is that all you've got, _chosen one_? How disappointing." His eyes watched Sam intently, even in their gaze managing infuriating insubordination.

A motion from behind forewarned him that Ruby was about to intercede, as she had done on four occasions previous when exhaustion finally incapacitated him. He threw up a hand to stay her though she remained outside of his reach.

"No!" he barked through gritted teeth. This was _his_ fight, and he was not defeated yet.

She complied.

Sam's features twisted into a feral snarl of incredulity and blood lust, and he only pushed harder; forcing his physical and psychic strength to their furthest region of extremity. He would not be deprived of victory. Not this time.

Ruby watched him with sagacious devotion, impressed by his violent persistence and level of endurance. _They_ were something new. Improvement was undeniable, even within the last 48 hours alone, but they were yet a long way from ready. Sam still abstained and resisted, until instinct drove what conscience forebode, and that was what made him weak; flabby. He refused to embrace the pivotal element key to harnessing his abilities, and until such a time his rate of progression was and would remain limited. That humanitarian spirit and noble compassion had proved more formidable to suppress than she had initially anticipated, even in the wake of Dean's damnation and a whole load of self-loathing. Altruism made her sick.

Sam's breathing degenerated into ragged gasps, his intake of oxygen insufficient to its purpose; chest heaving with the effort. Every muscle in his body spasmed and contracted systematically, burning and quivering while the inordinate accumulation of lactic acid slowly poisoned his system. And still he would not surrender.

Perspiration leaked from every pore, worsening his physical condition by means of rapid dehydration. His loose fitting shirt was long since saturated and clung uncomfortably to his skin; a paroxysm of hot and cold undulations, which raked his frame with alternate shivers. His head throbbed so severely that with each subsequent pulsation his vision momentarily oscillated, persistently darkening around the edges, until he was rendered almost blind by the effects of crippling fatigue. A warm, metallic scented liquid gushed across the planes of his lips – dripped off his chin, indicating that more than one blood vessel had been perforated with the strain.

He knew he was flailing. If he maintained the same influx of energy his strength would be spent in little over a minute, ten seconds if he defected all inhibition and threw every last sliver of strength and vitality into the foray, discounting resultant comatose. Naturally he chose the latter option, venturing further and deeper than should have been humanly possible. The world roared and thrashed around him like some rabid animal, or maybe that was just the blood coursing through his veins, combusting at an accelerated level.

The demons laugher ceased abruptly, its sound lost to asphyxiation, which was no less noisome. He began to convulse more definitively, pitching forwards, mouth rigid in a pose of expulsion. He gagged and coughed productively until tendrils of black smoke forced their way unwillingly from his body.

Sam momentarily exulted; he was was doing it! … And then his strength failed. The demon retreated back inside the chiropractors body, no less disdainful for his close encounter.

Out of spite alone Sam wanted to send the bastard screaming back to the bowls of hell, and he had no qualms concerning means. A month ago he could have done it too, as easy as breathing. Latin had always come naturally to him, and the intricate phonetics of the appropriate exorcism were once as familiar as his name. But not now. Now he couldn't even remember a word. He had severed all connections with _that_ life the day Dean … No!

The floor rushed up to meet him where he stood, and he was helpless to its brutality, weak as a kitten and about as threatening. He half lay, panting and willing himself to remain conscious, wasn't he permitted some dignity at least?

The laughter suffered inception again, somehow just that much more grating. Ridicule. Belittlement. Arrogance.

"Come _on_, Sam! Are you even trying? That was pathetic!"

Ruby had moved to occupy the no-man's land separating her charge from the demon. A black figure against the flames. Her stance was ambiguous; dominating, certainly, but also protective. The writing tongues refracted off the iridescent contours of the quint knife she guarded. The demon grew subdued in her presence.

Sam gazed up at her through unfocused eyes, knowing not which of the three undulating figures had spoken. He cradled his head mournfully, feeling like it had been cleft in two by the novice strokes of a blunt axe.

"Gimme a break Ruby," he spat indignantly. Unbelievable!

Dizzied by even the smallest motion, he stumbled to his feet and procured two heavy duty painkillers, washing them down with copious swallows of brandy. A year ago he couldn't stomach the stuff, now he drank it as if it was mothers milk. A necessity, not a luxury. He could not face the day sober, nor the clarity of thought and memory it entailed.

He knew Dean would never have wanted this for him, but Dean was gone, and Sam had to keep on fighting; captain in a war which was lost before it started. He had to be better than himself: had to be Dean – powerful, undeniable, sacrificing. So he drank the demon blood, expended the force of his mind and suffered the hangover, because it was the _only_ way he could ensure his revenge. Ruby taught him that much.

Addiction was a broad spectrum that spilled into every facet of life like a toxin.

Full of self loathing, he threw the bottle violently against the wall where it shattered with a sharp note, spilling its sticky resin onto the floor. His fingers brutally tore at his unwashed hair. Ruby watched him carefully.

"Sure, we'll take it easy for a few days," her tone was coddling, but there was an edge to it also, "order in some French fries, maybe visit a day spar." She moved towards him now. "Meanwhile Lilith continues to break seals, getting stronger and stronger all the time."

"Damn it, Ruby, I know!" Sam wheeled round to face her, chest rising and falling in rapid succession. There was something in her stoic, unriled expression which disarmed him; a harsh kind of pacifism.

She moved closer to him, until he could _taste_ her scent upon the air. It almost drove him mad with desire. He shifted uncomfortably, rolling his neck.

"You're the only one who can do this, Sam. You have a responsibility ..."

"_Responsibility_," he scoffed. What, a responsibility to the entire world? That was rich. What was the world and civilization to him, when both had been instruments in his brothers destruction, when both had drove him to despair?

He was a good man, though that conviction had been sorely tested over the last six months, and even now, when _his _world knew nothing but forsake and darkness, he endeavoured to save them and theirs. By pulling out demons, he gave innocent people their lives back: a mercy that the grand scale of war didn't often afford. Even now it remained his ruling compulsion: the more people he saved, the more he could change his destiny.

"It's not fair," Ruby agreed. "You're hurting, I know, I see it every day." She touched his wrist, thumb caressing the area surrounding his pulse point. He tore his arm away from her savagely. "And you're angry. But instead of channelling that energy into something constructive, you let it consume you, weaken you – and that's why you fail. Instead, harness it. Use it to drive your will."

"No." His power depended upon control, and anger omitted that very necessity. Renounce that control and he might as well renounce himself.

"I never said this would be easy, Sam, but it'll get better. I promise." She gazed up at him with doleful eyes, and he foolishly believed her sympathy.

"When?" He was tired of failing, tired of his best never being enough. The pain of Dean's loss would never relent, so instead he repressed it, under and myriad of alternate connotations.

"Soon," Ruby soothed, "I know you can do better. I've _seen_ you do better." He could feel the warmth of her breath on the air.

Sam groaned and stumbled away from her, the clumsiness of his movements not entirely born from the persistent pounding of his head, disconcerting as that was. Ruby did not question, just watched him with that same avid and primal hunger.

"I wanna try again," he mumbled with distracted focus, oblivious to her sadistic smile.

The demon was quiet now; suspicious. His eyes darted back and forth between the seductress and her prey. Calculating.

Halting before their captive, Sam closed his eyes and raised his right hand, all the better to channel the energy he was about to unleash. Clearing his mind he located the barrier and began to push against it, extending it outwards. Immediately his weak limbs began to quiver treacherously. One meter, two – he felt sick to his stomach. It was like pushing against a brick wall with nothing more substantial than hope. He delved deeper, seeking the limitless resivour of energy that was eternally at his disposal, only to find that access denied. The barrier solidified, and then rebounded back. Sam's stomach lurched, forcing itself mercilessly up through his throat.

He bolted towards the door, determined to preserve what small shreds of dignity remained to him. Shivering on the steps he vomited painfully, clinging to the railing for support. Brandy; it looked the same coming up as going down, the only difference was the curdled taste. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten anything solid, surprisingly his liquid diet it didn't make regurgitation any less unpleasant.

He coughed and gagged again, knowing not whether it was overexertion, or the potent mix of painkillers and alcohol which had brought on the bout of sickness. Frankly he didn't care. Didn't care what he was doing to himself nor what he was doing to his body. He only needed to stay alive long enough to vanquish Litith to the furthest regions of hell. Proceeding revenge, he had nothing else to live for, and certain self destructive tendencies would only hasten the inevitable.

Miserable and afraid, he called a single name into the night, the only one who could soothe the nightmare of his life;

"Dean …" it was a moment before he remembered. Dean could never again answer.

"Sam?" Ruby hesitated fractionally in the doorway as he retched one final time. Then she was beside him, running her fingers comfortingly through his hair in a way all too reminiscent of his brother. Just for a second Sam pretended.

"It's okay, Sammy." But pretence only made the reality more raw and uncompromising.

Tears spilled rudely across his cheeks, and their origin was not be found entirely in after effect. He had never truly _mourned_ Dean's death, just buried the pain.

He slumped onto the stairs, supporting his throbbing head in his hands, shivering in the biting night, but too weak to do anything to help himself. Why was it so hard? Never before had any one person wrung so true of the wisdom that: bad things _do_ happen to good people, as Sam Winchester did in those sorry months, which shattered him from the interior out.

He almost expected Ruby to sit beside him, to push her warm body against his own, in a gesture that was too familiar and not enough. No, he _wanted_ it.. But the next time she spoke her tone was unrepentantly harsh and scathing:

"Get some rest, Sam. You're obviously not ready."

She left him sitting alone in the darkness, wondering if his life was spiralling out of control.

As she plunged the knife squarely into their captive's neck, she smiled sagaciously. Piece by piece, Sam's resolve was crumbling. Men were the easiest species on the planet to manipulate – undermine their abilities, offer affront to their masculinity, and before long they were putty.

Sam's control over his abilities grew daily. But he never realized, until it was too late, the extent of control Ruby exercised over_ him_.

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><p><em>Thank you very much for reading.<em>

_- One Wish Magic. _


	3. Dean: Here

_Some brotherly love, and shameless hurt/comfort. Brothers have always got each others back._

_Can't say i've ever had a concussion before, but I imagine it to be incredibly confusing :')_

_Set early Season 1, not long after the brothers are reunited._

_I still own nothing._

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><p><strong>3. Here<strong>

_Pain_: persistent, burning, aching, intense. _Darkness_: enforced, unnatural, prolonged, consuming. _Confusion_: distorted, illogical, sensory, prevalent. _Nausea_: inescapable, fierce, ambiguous, induced.

It was never _just_ a simple salt and burn. Nothing was ever _just_ anything when it came to hunting.

"Dean?" Sam's throat barely permitted the sound. What had happened to him?

"I'm right here, Sammy. I'm not going anywhere."

There came a gentle pressure upon his shoulder, but for all its comfort, it just felt like a further extension of the pain in his head. And god, wasn't that unbearable! He had never seriously considered the benefits of decapitation before, but right now it seemed like a highly viable option.

And then, Dean was talking to him again; whispering … why was Dean whispering? Was somebody sick? Injured? How come Sam hadn't been made aware of this? He endeavoured to recall some third party who they had been travelling with, and around whose death bed they were so evidently situated. There had been him, Dean of course, and … He couldn't remember … Maybe no-body. _Sam_ wasn't sick, he knew that much off the bat … But then, why did he feel so awful? Things were most definitely askew.

Didn't Dean know how greatly even the smallest sound tortured him? Didn't Dean understand that his heart head relocated to the region that was his head – and oh how _that_ ached – pulsating arrogantly so that the receipt of sound was nigh on impossible? This was simple biology, so why was Dean being so resistant?

Did that mean his ears, therefore, had taken up residence upon his chest; filling the void left by his heart? What an obscure notion! He was pretty certain he had not consented to that trade.

"Dean?"

"Right here, Sam."

But where was _here_? Or was it _there_? Where was _anywhere_? He wanted to giggle, but no, the pain was too much: too much to bare. Besides, he was unconvinced that the remainder of his organs had retained their original settings. He was pretty sure that his stomach had rehoused itself in his throat. Or maybe that was just the nausea.

Why was it so dark? This_ here_ where Dean was so certain they resided. Dark and comfortable. The two states were incompatible, or maybe they were perfect. He couldn't decide. And when did darkness change allegiance so as to embody such diverse visual stimuli? Why was nothing as it should be? Was the world really nothing more than a bad acid trip, a pantomime of white rabbits and mad hatters?

No. There was too much pain for that.

What had happened to him? How did he get _here_? How was Dean talking to him when Sam, traumatically, devastatingly, knew him to be dead? Was not that why his heart had eloped in the first place?

Dean wasn't dead!

But he _was_. Sam had saw him. Pallid and still. Eyes closed. Laying immobile in an open grave.

"DEAN!"

He bolted upright, and instantly knew it to have been an error of judgement. The world oscillated in noisome fashion, like the course of an innovative fair-ground ride, robbing him of all comprehension concerning the states of up or down. _Was_ he on a fair-ground ride? Dean, after all, had not been specific. If so, his memory did their comfort no justice.

Strong arms caught and held him.

"Hey, hey! Easy, I got you. I'm right here. Right here, Sammy. I ain't going anywhere, d'you hear? Nowhere!"

Dean's heart almost broke to hold Sam in his arms, to cradle him in a way reminiscent of childhood, and to feel his entire frame quiver, tormented by spectral convictions of fraudulent anguish. Helplessness was the worst feeling in the world. The will to do, but the practice denied. He could not, in reality, do anything more than what he was doing now, but somehow, it just didn't seem like enough.

The kid was a mess. Severely concussed, with a pretty extensive contusion misshaping the area above his right temple. The bruising was already beginning to spread, making the injury appear just that much more horrific, as if it wasn't bad enough in the initial instance. Sam had missed a trip to the emergency room by a hairsbreadth, and Dean still wasn't above hauling his sorry carcass there.

"Deeaann …"

That one wasn't a question, it was a moan. One Dean was all to familiar with for doddery; a plea offered to the darkness by the voice of a child.

He managed to get the conveniently located trash can beneath Sam's chin just in time for him to throw up in it. A big brothers instincts were infallible. He rubbed his palm in circular motions upon Sam's back, seeking to provide even the smallest modicum of comfort.

Four years away at collage hadn't changed a thing, not when it all came down to it. The bickering and uncertainty which had characterised their initial weeks of reunion was nothing more than surface tension. A process of necessitated re-learning. Their bond ran much stronger and deeper than that, brotherhood was woven into the very fabric of their beings, reminiscent of some primal instinct. To protect, to love, to cherish. They always had been and always would be, there for one another.

"Jeeze, Sammy. What are you trying to do to me, huh? This is payback for the time I put shaving foam in your toothpaste, isn't it?" Dean mocked without feeling. The situation wasn't funny.

He was decidedly uneasy. As hunters, the Winchesters were no strangers to head trauma, but that did not mean they were seasoned veterans either. It was the one injury which paralleled their profession in unpredictability. Disingenuous on a myriad of levels: disproportionate bloodless coupled with a mute severity. Awesome.

Dean knew the effects a concussion wrought upon his brother, better than anyone – a sight to often witnessed for reassurance. How Sam fell into determined and unnerving silence and immobility … unless of course a display of brash overconfidence in the midst of a hunt left him reeling in the throes of misrepresented grief for the brother who remained steadfast at his side.

Sam uttered and unintelligible sound, which could not even suffer the accusation of resembling a reply.

"I know. You want me to shut my yap and stop making your headache worse than it already is." _That_ whine was defiantly an affirmative.

"No can do, I'm afraid," Dean forced a weak cheeriness into his tone, "not until we've got some fluids in you and another dose of the good drugs. And by the way, you've got six hours and counting to convince me you don't need hauling to the hospital."

Well, that got Sam's attention. He opened his eyes for the first time to fix Dean with an unfocused glare, the right one almost swollen shut. Dean was inordinately reassured by the timid expression of defiance.

"'appened t' me? Sam burbled as soon as he had located his tongue. Had it always been so swollen and clumsy? What a hindrance.

Again and again his fingers traced the cold, cylindrical shape of the trash can in animated intrigue. It was just so … peculiar. No beginning, no end. Just like hunting. His hands were loath to relinquish it when Dean attempted its removal, despite the fact that there was nothing left in his stomach for the perpetrator to rebel against. So Dean compliantly relented.

"Damn heroism is what happened to you," he reprimanded with only half-hearted exasperation, before clarifying to Sam's temporarily addled logic; "you got yourself an impressive concussion; whacked your head pretty good. What's the last thing you remember?"

Pain. Always pain. How could there have been anything before that single prevalent sensation? … But, yet, there was … There was a cohesive anatomy for one, purpose and responsibility and … a job to be done. Always a job. These were things which mulled idly in the wake of confusion. Notions which he teased to the forefront … and of course, there was still pain.

"Hunting. Cover-up. Revenge."

It wasn't the most coherent of explanations but he would take it happily; Dean wasn't looking for miracles. That was his boy, never down for long.

Their hunt had led them to back-road Colorado, and the spirit of one particularly twisted Elroy Sands, who enjoyed, in his spare time; origami, stamp collecting and slicing the throats of his nearest and dearest with an inscribed letter opener. Nice guy.

A freak accident had resulted in a family cover up back in the eighties, and now dear Elroy was out for revenge. They had torched his bones only hours before, the scent still clinging to their clothes. His homicidally restless spirit had put up a violent resistance; humbling one brother and maiming the other.

In the brief lapse of conversation, Sam's eyes had betrayed his intentions and fallen closed again, his head lolling automatically upon Dean's shoulder, still finding the same finding the same groves there which seemed as relics of another lifetime

Dean permitted the contact; welcomed it even, for it calmed his disquiet temper – the proximity to his brother, whose mortality had that evening been so violently staked. Though he would contest it with vehemence to anyone bold enough to allude it (and most especially Sam) seeing his little brother laying there, looking so … broken, had sincerely frightened him. More than he cared to admit.

Worse because it had been entirely and irrevocably _his_ fault: the price of arrogance was not one always afforded by the perpetrator.

But more than anything, it was the _memory_ of that fear which fuelled his persistent unease. Hunting with Sammy was a world away from hunting with John, and maybe he still idled in the adjustment period. All he knew was that dad would have done anything to ensure the job was completed – sacrificial to the last, even on the part of others absent of consent – while Sam, in the heat of confrontation, had abandoned his position, endangering himself in order to protect his idiot of a brother.

They pretended like nothing could hurt them, that they could weather every blow and come back swinging, that busted ribs and gunshot wounds were nothing more than playground scrapes. Reality was quite the adverse. There was a reason why hunters barely outlived their fifties, and in the end, it wasn't always the physical demons that got them.

Sam was over-warm, but not feverish, his breathing perceptibly laboured, distorted through unschooled undulations of pain, though it remained strong and rhythmic. Sammy was a fighter. His presence was a comfortable pressure upon Dean's shoulder, just as his safety and well-being was an eternal one upon Dean's heart.

With a gentleness that belied his rough exterior, Dean brushed back the wayward bangs from Sam's forehead. Kid needed a haircut. They would have to contrive some means of preventing the unruly tresses irritating the laceration site while it healed, left exposed to the air. Maybe a headband … a bright pink one.

While Sam's fingers were lax, Dean extricated the trash can, causing his brother to stir.

Sam's whole existence felt precariously uncertain without something to hold onto. An inanimate object had become his anchorage, his grounding against delusion. Wasn't that odd.

"Dean?" There was no panic, just an affirmation.

"Right here," Dean assured with a smile.

"Oh. Wher' we?" His eyes roamed the rooms interior with vague reference, teetering upon recognition, though he never moved his head to widen the vantage, so all he beheld was the significance of a wan light, filtering opalescently through the once cream nets.

Dean understood why the unimportant details might have seemed a little hazy. Sam had spent the entirety of the tense homeward journey drifting alternately in and out of consciousness and bleeding profusely into the white linen of Dean's sacrificed shirt. A macabre vision indeed.

"Broadwalk Inn motel. Closest place I could find to patch you up. You owe me a new shirt, by the way."

"Yeah," Sam agreed without really knowing to what he was assenting. Dean grinned despite the solemnity of the present situation.

"And that hundred dollars I won off you in polka the other night."

"Yeah," Sam agreed again without preamble. Dean chuckled.

"Nah, I'm just kidding. You don't owe me anything."

Dean tousled Sam's messy hair fondly, earning himself a derogatory look which only furthered his amusement. At least Sam's spirit's had not taken the nock. And then, growing abruptly serious, he whispered;

"It's me that's in your debt."

The Winchesters had long since implemented a system of trigger questions designed to access the severity of head wounds. Birthdays, place names, memories and other sentimentalities. The things not even a wizened hunter forgets. While Dean, or even John on occasion, would grit their teeth and weather the interrogatives in a single continuous stream, until their questioner was satisfied, Sam abhorred the practice and strove to be wilfully difficult. It was only over the years that Dean had realized staggering the questions at least made Sam more compliant. And so with the ease of a professional, Dean slipped them unassumingly into conversation.

"Hey Sam, what year were you born in?"

"Ninetee' eighty-three. M'not stupid," he grumbled thickly.

"No?" Dean raised an eyebrow, exaggeratedly inflecting his tone. "I tell you to be careful and instead you rush eagerly into the path of a homicidally motivated spirit. Real smart, kiddo." He resisted the urge, albeit only barely, to rap Sam on the head for the trouble of his chivalry. "Nice shot though. Three salt round to the skull. And here I thought you'd be rusty."

"Saved yo'r a'se," Sam defended the righteousness of his actions with feeble indignation.

"Yeah, you did," admitted Dean with pride.

An instant too long spent revelling in pre-emptive victory had brought the wrath of Elroy Sands spirit upon him. Match poised to torch the sucker, Dean had been roughly shunted backwards into the maw of the open and highly flammable grave site. He had escaped his own cremation by a hairsbreadth when, dazed and winded by the blow, his fingers had slackened to surrender their fuse.

Reacting instinctively, Sam had dropped to retrieve the sawn-off shot gun they had been nursing for just such a show of resistance and loosed three rounds into the spirits skull, forcing it to dematerialize. He then placed himself resolutely between Dean and any advances the opportunist apparition may have made, scanning the periphery with undeterred intensity.

The thing which had broken his focus was the sound of Dean's groan. Some baser instinct, entirely orientated towards his big brother usurped rationality, logic and even the primary compulsion of self preservation, forcing him to turn his back upon their temperamental assailant. And that was when he had seen it: Dean; pallid and still. Eyes closed. Laying immobile in an open grave. That image; the last he perceived before making the brutal acquaintance of a nearby headstone, had become superimposed upon his disillusioned mind. And so he re-lived, again and again, the pangs of unrighteous grief.

Sam just smiled, the warring forces of discomfort and exhaustion leaving little consideration for idle talk. Which one had he sided with again?

Dean must have sensed his surrender, for, though he hated the necessity of it, he stirred Sam with a gentle but insistent shaking and the impart of one final request:

"Think you can drink a little water for me?

Sam was more than tempted to decline. The last thing he wanted right now in his turbulent and sensitive stomach was excess liquid, but Dean second guessed him before he could form a coherent return.

"You know the drill; no water, no drugs." It was an idle threat, but Sam didn't need to know that.

As if to force the point, he pressed the rim of the bottle lightly but unarguably to Sam's lips, allowing a fraction of the liquid to moisten them.

Reluctantly, Sam took a meagre and hesitant swallow, before groaning and moving as if to turn his head away, though without physically performing the action.

"Come on, you've gotta show me more commitment than that," warned Dean, "I'm serious about holding out on you."

Sam begrudgingly took four more swallows, before it became evident that he would humour Dean no further. It didn't matter, Dean was satisfied.

He carefully assisted Sam into a comfortably prone position, noticing how he uncharacteristically folded in upon himself. He had never looked more like an overgrown child, breaking under the weight of responsibility, than he did in that moment. Carefully, Dean stood.

"I'm just gonna rinse this out," he said indicating the used trash can, "and then grab you some more painkillers. I won't be far, okay?"

"Mmm." Sam was already half unconscious.

Pain. Darkness. Confusion. Nausea … each grew more prevalent with times liberal elapse. But what did they _matter_? What did anything _matter_ when Dean was dead, and he was alone? Sam had seen him, and he couldn't rid himself of the image: pallid and still. Eyes closed. Laying immobile in an open grave.

"DEAN? DEAN!"

So, maybe his assurances of Sam's recovery had been a little premature in their contrive, Dean conceded as he rushed back to his brothers side. Nevertheless, Sam's resilient nature, challenged most prominently in adversity, had convinced him that a trip to the emergency room was unnecessary. That was progress, at least.

"Right here, Sammy. I'm not going anywhere."

Dean shunned the inviting and commodious expanse of his own appointed bed, for the cramped, tangent conditions of Sam's. If his brother needed something during the night, he would know immediately.

He settled down for a long and uncomfortable stretch, sparse on sleep, knowing he would endure the wearisome repetition of questions and desperate calls of his name with good grace and infallible patience. _Because_ Sam had saved his life. _Because_ Sam was his brother. And because, right now he needed Sam _here_, in his arms, as much as his brother needed him. Maybe more.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you very much for reading.<em>

_- One Wish Magic._


	4. Castiel: Ravenous

_I know, I know, it's been done, but it's such an interesting concept. And Castiel is as bad-ass as he is adorable :') I tried to capture his character, and the way he seems to take everything in its literal sense._

_Set late season 5._

_I still own nothing, and gain no profit._

* * *

><p><strong>4. Ravenous<strong>

It was a hollow, distracting and uncomfortable sensation which clamoured for his constant attention. Castiel did not like it.

The little black box, whose mysteries of infinite life eluded him, did nothing to divert his focus as he had intended. Surely its inactivity formed part of a circadian hibernation cycle … ?

"Hey, Cas? It usually works better if you turn it on," informed Dean will ill repressed amusement, throwing himself down upon the bed opposite and coaxing the prehistoric television set into some semblance of life. Honestly, the angel must have been staring at the blank screen for the past _hour_.

Meanwhile, Sam lingered in the confined kitchenette, alternately trading time between the pursuits of research and staring idly out of their second-rate motel window.

In his observation of the brothers, Castiel identified an excessive energy and exaggeration about their actions. Restlessness, his intuition supplied. As one, they grew uneasy. That concerned him.

He returned his attention back to the box. The iridescent scenarios it boasted persistently and abruptly altered and reformed so that he could make no sense of their significance. He wondered whether this lack of contingency constituted its natural state.

Dean lazily flipped through the limited allotment of channels, maintaining a close watch upon the angel, should he betray any indication of interest. Nada. Cas was as inscrutable as ever.

Finally, he settled on some lame romantic sitcom, the kind that Sam would unashamedly prick up his ears to catch. Maybe Cas was a sentimentalist.

Castiel listened more than he watched. There were raised voices: anger. An argument; accusations abound. But yet the females alto tones were quailing and breathless; and tears furnished her cheeks as if she were aggrieved. The male conversely, leaned more towards indignation. The names and places of which they conversed were nonsensical. It was all incredibly bewildering.

The disconcerting sensation returned with renewed vigour, where, given the angles infinitesimal distraction, it had tapered off. Twisting, writhing, gurgling in the region of his midriff, perceptibly audible in its distress. This strange anatomy was a myriad of impulses, aches and yearnings: so distinctly _human_. It had primal needs, but as to how one assessed and satisfied them, Castiel was woefully ignorant. And so, he floundered; the lamb in a den of wolves. For after all, there was no fallen angels guide.

_Fallen Angel_. Scripture glorified everything, reality was less inclined to accord.

Everything he was – he had given up for love. The love of human beings, the love of their world; corrupted and tainted as it was, the love of morality, which paved a crimson path with the blood of brothers and sisters, and demanded defection from a cause of covert tyranny. Their legacy proceeded them, those whose rebellious actions lent notoriety to a name: _Anna, Castiel, Lucifer_.

The dichotomy between good an evil had always appeared so prevalent and clear cut; as if it lent purpose to all. But, when shamed and demoted to a reincarnation which craved gratification, even that ageless distinction did not seem so black and white. Humanity was pliable either way, and there were some souls who blurred even those fortified lines. Souls like Sam Winchester, and albeit, to a less drastic degree, Dean.

Dean noted the angels dissatisfied expression with a certain amount of smugness;

"So I guess you're not in to all that girly melodrama then? That's more Sam's department."

Then, raising his voice to a degree that was immoderate when calling the attention of his brother who sat not six yards away:

"Hey, Sam! Cas thinks your viewing habits suck." Sam just rolled his eyes.

"So this is entertainment?" queried Castiel without inflection, motioning towards the box.

"Sure is," grinned Dean. And then noticing his friends uncertainty; "you'll grow to love it." The angel was sceptical.

"Hey, remind me to introduce you to , MD. Thursday afternoons will never be the same again!" Dean winked before uttering a monosyllabic better suited to a man enjoying his first taste of sustenance after a period of prolonged starvation.

Sam scoffed. His experiences of _that_ particular show had been a tad too literal for his own preference.

Castiel was about to assure Dean that he was not currently suffering any malady and therefore, any meeting with a medical practitioner was wholly unnecessary, when the timid protestations of his midriff graduated into what could only be described as an audible _rumbling_.

The angel shifted in rigid discomfort at the accompanying sensation, finding the internal movement distasteful. His skin momentarily burned like fire, the flames concentrated upon the region of his cheeks. Another involuntary reaction of this strange anatomy; embarrassment.

The two brothers exchanged a significant glance, before:

"Are you hungry, Cas?" Sam asked. The interrogative was unambiguous enough, but yet there was something peculiar in his tone. He recovered himself quickly, however; "yeah, I guess you must be pretty ravenous, you haven't eaten since …"

"The dawn of time," Dean added helpfully.

Sam raised an eyebrow and Dean shrugged. The former had been intending to say; 'since you became human,' but had hesitated on account of the prospective insensitivity. Cue Dean.

_Hungry. Ravenous. _The latter made the same state sound perverse and animalistic. Castiel vaguely remembered 'hunger' from their run in with Famine; the barrenness; the desire; the _need_. But then the sensation had been solely and entirely Jimmy's, born of the vessels partiality to red meat: separate and distant. _Then_ Castiel had been the vessel, slave to impetuous yearning, which demanded satisfaction.

Now, the sensation was wholly his own, and though comparatively sharper and more exigent, its semblance to hunger was undeniable. And perhaps ravenous _was_ the more befitting term.

"Yes. I do believe I am afflicted with hunger."

Dean shook his head disbelievingly. Only Castiel could make something as commonplace as the necessity to eat sound so outrageously structured and adherent.

"Well, let's go and grab some grub then," said Dean, happily vacating the rough motel sheets and snagging the car keys from the complimentary ash-tray. "There's a double-cheeseburger out there with my name on it."

He was half way through the door before Sam called him back.

"Er, Dean …"

"_What?_" He was honestly _desperate_ to gain a reprieve from the outdated, garish décor and the lingering odour of damp which permeated the stifled air of the single room they had inhabited, without intermission, for three days. Even one as short lived as a trip to the nearest greasy spoon would constitute a godsend.

"Maybe it would be better if we ordered in …" implied Sam, indicating Castiel, who remained in the same rigid position, observing the brothers with interest. Apparently he didn't comprehend invitations to dine out.

Dean gazed wistfully upon the world beyond the four sickeningly clashing walls which they now inhabited. He was going stir crazy! But even that could not justify forcing the former angel to integrate into a society he so evidently was not ready to inhabit. With a heavy sigh, Dean reluctantly closed the door.

"Maybe you're right."

It was three days since Castiel's fall from grace, and the onset of humanity had been swift.

It began small, little things at first. Things which would have otherwise defied notice: the necessity to blink more frequently; the _requirement_ of breathing rather than just the habit – such trivial processes no longer piloted by the vessels body itself; the simultaneous enhancement and detraction of senses. The reality of solidity, of fixed location, and Dean thought that must have been the hardest to bare.

Then came sensitivity to temperature, and an especial abhorrence of the cold. There had been true anguish in Sam's eyes when he had witnessed Castiel shiver for the first time, and its complete allegiance was not owed solely to sorrow for the consequences of the angels sacrifice, it was in part the sorrow of a lost ideal, for with Castiel's growing humanity, so his representation of angels faded.

Subsequently came discomfort: the stiffness of prolonged standing, the numbness born of excessive sedentary, the irritation of certain materials against the skin, not to mention the necessity to relieve some of the more _baser_ needs.

And soon after: pain. In his immeasurable term as an angel, Castiel knew only one comparative for the noun, the agony of being wrenched unwillingly back to heaven. But within the confines of humanity, pain assumed a plethora of distinct forms: both literal and semantic. The pain of grief and loss, the pain of disappointment, the sharp implements bite and resultant tenderness, and the resonating throbbing which resided just behind his temples; out of reach. Those were the pains he had experienced thus far, and already they seemed too numerous to bare.

Now it appeared that they were transitioning into the triumph of more prominent milestones: hunger, and in probable partnership, thirst. Sleep, for the moment, however, remained unnecessary, its ultimate occurrence as the final certification.

It was like witnessing the dependant toddler flourish into the independent child, only, ironically reversed. Or the successive stages of some degenerative disease. It was the same sort of cruelty: the resultant emotional insecurity formed of the same unforgiving model.

And yet, Castiel bore it all with the same religious stoicism, the same ineffectual reserve which defined him. That scared Sam and Dean more than the shrouded uncertainty the former angels future had become, because Cas must have felt _something_, even if it was regret. They mocked and made light of the situation _because_ it wasn't funny. They traded distressing insecurity for humour.

Dean lead Castiel to the crude, metal construction which masqueraded as a serviceable table, a guiding hand upon the angels shoulder. Usually such ceremonies were not observed, but as this constituted Castiel's first official meal, he deserved the full customary experience, or as close to as their current situation permitted.

Sam paid for the delivery with unabashed disbelief. Then, depositing their laden spoils upon the centre of the table, which shifted precariously under the weight, he fixed Dean with an exasperated glance:

"Did you order the _entire_ menu?"

"Eh, give or take," Dean permitted, eagerly divvying up the contents, then, without glancing up at Sam, who contrary to practice remained standing, and seeming to read his brothers expression of wearied incredulity even as Castiel observed it:

"Come on, you lost fair an square. If Cas is gonna like something then it's gonna be something full of saturates, additives and e-numbers, not all that rabbit food crap you're so partial to," Dean gloated without reserve, offering Sam his smuggest and most infuriating smile until the latter relented his cause and took as seat in their small congregation.

Wait … Sam part-took in cross species nutrition? Castiel was certain the advisability of _that_ was not to prolific.

In the presence of appropriate sustenance his hunger only grew more violent and uncomfortable. It ached like a constant pressure, simultaneously compelling him to cradle his stomach in want of relief, and defect from that very action for fear of exacerbation. His senses were assailed by a hundred different scents, each one more glorious than he had ever experienced, more glorious than heaven itself. What did the scents of a human world matter to an angel? Nothing. They didn't even exist.

He distantly recalled the mechanics of consumption: the wearing down and reduction of material via a peculiar grinding motion, proceeded by the convulsive movement which worked in numeracy to sate the body, leaving the mouth empty once more.

And of the diverse foods arrayed before him, he recognised but few; burgers, and those long, thin, golden tubes with fluffy white interiors he had heard referred to as '_fries,'_ among them.

He was aware of the brothers intense gaze upon him and the fervency of implore it retained. It stirred a new uneasiness within his stomach, a motion that was quite unlike hunger.

Cautiously, he reached for the fries, which appeared the most uncomplicated of the party. He chewed mechanically, swallowed convulsively and tasted nothing. The smooth series of motions performed subconsciously by those accustomed to eating, were hesitant, exaggerated and staggered by the angel, marking the simple practice a decidedly laborious affair.

It was not until the fifth mouthful that Castiel really discovered taste and … wow! There were no words to describe it, for taste was its own description. And to a former angel, discovering humanity for the first time, it was unbelievable, incomparable. He made a sound of thorough satisfaction that was not entirely involuntary.

"You like those, huh?" chuckled Dean. He watched Castiel lick the remnant salt from his fingers in an uncharacteristic motion of humanity. Sam grinned wryly.

"They are most appetising," he agreed.

"They taste even better with sauce," Dean assured, applying a generous portion to the lid of a discarded burger carton and motioning for Castiel to coat his suspended French fry. They would tackle table etiquette and the science of cutlery at a later function.

Castiel thought that the fries could not suffer improvement … he was wrong. In that moment he comprehended the humans persistent and liberal figurative use of heaven, and all related synonyms.

When interaction waned, Castiel fell to observing the two men before him, as was becoming increasingly habitual. His _friends_, in the broadest and most unrestrained sense of the word. He measured the breadth and comparative frequency of their mouthfuls: how Sam paused minutely between swallows and took only moderate and consistent bites, while Dean forced excessive amounts into the gaping region, chewing unsatisfactorily, swallowing audibly, and beginning again without a breath. Deciding that Dean more accurately paid homage to the representation of 'ravenous,' Castiel hurried to emulate him.

That was until he took too ambitious a bite of cheeseburger and chocked unceremoniously for a minute thereafter. Needless to say, he subsequently ate with renewed caution, having simultaneously curbed his latent desire for red meat with the fright.

Castiel was accommodating to the certainly enjoyable and novel sensation of being comfortably full when Dean proffered him an unappetising morsel.

With mild interest he had watched Dean submerge the torn quarter of toasted bread into the rose tinctured and vaguely opalescent liquid, guardedly sceptical of their union.

"Humans enjoy these elaborate combinations?" he clarified with resistance.

"Sure do," was Dean's succinct return; an inspiration of confidence, even as his levelled gaze dared Sam to intercede. The younger Winchester simply watched in high amusement.

Castiel really should have known those expressions by now, and the mischief they usually pre-empted.

He accepted the offering, chewed without reaction and swallowed before gazing at Dean without expression.

"Well?" Dean prompted, bemused by the angel's apathy and lack of repulse.

"That was disgusting," Castiel dead-panned.

Sam dissolved into laugher, knowing not whether Castiel's absence of reaction or Dean's crestfallen expression was the more hilarious. Clearly the families practical joker had met his match in one former Angel Of The Lord, who was yet, among other novelties, to discover humour.

"But you ate it …?" Dean accused in disbelief.

"I did," confirmed Castiel.

"Cas, if you don't like something, you don't have to swallow it, you know," Sam informed him belatedly, wiping tears from his eyes, "you can just spit it out."

" … That would be highly unsanitary."

The state of possessing emotion and/or of loving too persistently God's pestilent and favoured creation; humanity, were among two of the most derogatory insults angels could afford one another. Emotion was dangerous, it ruled logic and reason: compelling, impulsive, consuming. It formed part of what made Lucifer such a formidable adversary, for, imbued within that zealous anger and malice was ingenuity.

And yet, knowing its dangers, it was to emotion Castiel had so steadfastly cleaved. Sorrow and pity. Joy and excitement. And above all else, love.

He had given it _all_ up for love. Traded family for the friendship of Sam and Dean Winchester, for the civil liberty of free will. Humanity was the sacrifice, but even that had its perks.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you very much for reading.<em>

_- One Wish Magic._


	5. Bobby: Belt

_The ledgend that is Bobby Singer speaks for himself :)_

_I honestly don't know where this idea came from. But the episode; 'Dead Men Don't Wear Pallid' moved me to tears :') broke my heart for the grizzly old hunter, so i had to give him his moment in the limelight. Hopefully i've remained true to his character._

_Set pre-season, up until around Season 1._

_I still don't own anything._

* * *

><p><strong>5. Belt<strong>

She had once said it made him look dapper, but that might have just been an incentive to keep it; the belt he could design no use for.

It cost five dollars in a closing-down sale on the main-street, he had since spent more than that on salt in a single purchase. But yet Bobby Singer, minimalist, practical to a fault, had wrestled with the decision to purchase it something fierce, _because_ of what it symbolised: his commitment to her. The renouncement of his introverted nature.

It was not flamboyant, was not even fancy. A simple brown leather, 32 inches, with an intricate design at the buckle; brass, and even then so delicately tarnished. Sturdy, unobtrusive and reserved; she knew him to well.

But what it represented was something beyond its physical identity and primal use. It represented social gatherings, the extension of formal invitations, of communal meals which by their very customs necessitated reciprocation. All of those things which he had shunned in her absence; preferring the pleasure of his own company and that of a yard full of auto-wrecks – less ear ache.

She was the beauty who tamed the beast, the summertime which civilized the recluse. He had never been engineered for the purposes of decorum, nor to stand on ceremony; churning out false graces - but he would have done it all for her. Just to see that beautiful, angelic smile, the humble blush which embellished the tincture of her cheeks, temporarily concealing the golden freckles he loved so much. To be the heart of her elation, the centre of her universe, even as she was his.

Love had never altered an individual so profoundly as this one man, who never sought it, but always won it.

So, knowing its implications, he had taken it willingly, casting asunder two decades worth of unsavoury tendencies. While he had too extensively dabbled in the interests of solitude to crave interaction, he knew the injustice of impaling her with the same restraints. She deserved better. So warily, he had proceeded into a confusion of social faux pars and undervalued integrity.

The accessory accumulated three, maybe four social débuts, and in such a brief spectrum of time became almost abhorrent to him, characterised by every aspect he despised of its affiliations.

And then … she was taken from him. His beautiful Karen, his summertime in the otherwise winter of life. Taken in the cruellest and most unholy fashion. _Possessed_. Liberation demanded the cost of her life. The hands which otherwise would have caressed her, soaked in blood. The guilt had almost killed him. Sometimes he wished it had.

Proceeding her death, that unassuming belt, which preserved nothing beyond a fleeting impression of her delicate soul, was worn religiously by its owner. It was uncomfortable, restrictive and chafing; not unlike grief itself.

Its unfavourable allegiance transitioned into something pure, and it became as a _memento mori_. Equally a symbol of her life as a echo of her death, ensuring the conviction of her once remarkable, now usurped existence. Realities anchor in a profession that was too often nightmarishly imaginative.

He wore it in testament to her, in effort to remain close to her, forsaking even the finality of that great and ultimate divide. Its hold reminiscent of the arms that would never again embrace. Each time he touched it, he felt _her_. Grief did strange things to a person.

And of her, it reminded him; little, unrelated things:

Her fondness for strawberry tarts. How she used to sing while she cooked; always the same song, over and over, sometimes she even hummed it for variance – in all those years he had never thought to ask her what it was called, and now he would never have the opportunity … he would never have tired of her singing, that much he knew, he could have listened to the sound forever.

How she always seemed to exude a floral scent, even in the absence of perfume, as if the delicate Lily and Freesia were natures only suitor to her virtue. The way she used to cry when she laughed. Shiver fretfully at the imposition of a storm. The way she used to say his name …

It was the little things which he missed most. Those quaint traits which defined her.

What was mortality if not an omnipresent echo of loss?

As time decayed, so did the potency of his grief, and the elasticity of the cured fibres, which began to betray their age. The wizened and ever practical hunter thereafter exercised reserve in place of compulsion. His devotion remained paramount, but he had long since realized that he need not cling religiously to trinkets in order to preserve her memory. That was something which would never fade, irrespective of initial infirmity.

He wore it then, only in the field, a self-certified charm to the otherwise sceptic.

In trying to define the world, people often infuse and imbue into inanimate relics, a significance of meaning, or else lavish upon them the bestowal of properties which they were never crafted to possess: luck, ill-fortune, fate. In ignorance we call it superstition, when all it really is, is people searching for security, strength and hope to face adversity, and in finding none, manufacturing their own.

By that time, his life had derived a new definitive purpose in the form of one John Winchester and his two young sons. A man who, like himself, had lost almost everything to the equated blessing and curse of ignorance. Of normality.

John Winchester bore the weight of the world upon his shoulders, and then some.

That which had been bought in begrudge and subsequently graduated in value far exceeding simple functionality, later found use in the field.

They had fashioned it as a tourniquet in Sioux Falls, when Sam had fallen prey to the viscous attack of a Black Dog. It had been the kid's fifth hunt; dark, wet and dismal, a real gritty affair, moderately dangerous even, if not for the watch of two seasoned hunters and the eternal presence of a certain overprotective older brother, or so they thought. But Sam had outdone himself thus far, which corresponded the only reason why John had permitted him along for the ride, and even then, the boys role was strictly vigilance.

Dean had gotten to handle the gun, and even then, his hands had still appeared too young to wield it in Bobby's opinion. He reserved judgement upon John's decision to raise his boys as hunters.

None of them had even seen it coming, only heard the agony. Dean was closest, persistently hovering around his brothers locality, as if caught in Sam's own gravitational pull. Instantaneously, he converged upon his brother. Shots were fired. All of them found their mark.

Sam had been chalk white and shivering when they reached him; chest heaving with the labour of breathing through pain. He responded to Dean's comfort alone, and even then, only barely. His right leg angled and twisted, leaking a steady stream of blood into the already saturated earth. The sight was perverse – innocence afflicted.

Without thinking, Bobby had torn off the belt and lashed it tightly around Sam's thigh, staunching the bleeding just long enough to rush the kid to the nearest emergency room.

The object never alters, just the demands of use we place upon it, or the significant affiliations we wrought from it. That which had been bought in a era of bliss, was subsequently abhorred, became a symbol of grief and memory, and found its allegiance in luck, now possessed violent connotations also, and in all likelihood, had probably saved Sam's life to boot. A vibrant history, its subject incapable of animation.

But despite such notoriety, its baser uses were not wholly discounted.

When John bought Dean his first suit; second hand, a size too big and about three decades out of style, in lieu of their maiden joint enterprise fraud and false representation, Bobby had punched a few extra holes into the worn and fraying material, in an attempt to prevent the boys trousers from heading south in the middle of an interview. Though he would have paid a pretty penny to watch John try to defend their credulity in _that_ particular instance.

For the most part, Dean was indignant. Even the lure of his first official fake I.D could not tempt him into suitable good humour, nor Sam's reserve – a kindness that would not have been extended were the situation reversed – reinstate his usual jocular temperament. Bobby didn't blame him; the suit truly was awful. He had resolved to extend an offer to unceremoniously burn it as soon as the job was completed.

Dean had returned the belt three days later, preserving ignorance as to its sentiment. By that time, it was thread-bare, ragged and more than a little worse for wear. Not much to look at: a testament to the old hunter himself. But with each subsequent degenerative year, it only surplussed in value, engorged with a life times memories. In a state of terminal disrepair, it was worth a million times more to the wizened hunter than he had ever paid for it.

It survived thirteen years in total. Until, one day, returning home, he found its unmistakable remains torn and strewn mercilessly through the length of the house, and an extremely unhappy puppy, who had so evidently and recently learned the incompatibility of leather and the canine digestive system. Rumsfeld always did have a knack for trouble.

The burnished buckle was the only portion which had survived the Rottweiler's curiosity.

And so, the brutally practical hunter was once more won over by sentiment. He kept the buckle. Locked it away in a secret compartment, concealed in the mantel.

As a possession it was rendered useless, but to a lonely man whose golden years were spent, it was the world.

The legacy often far outlasts the object.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you very much for reading.<em>

_- One Wish Magic._


	6. Sam: Curl

_Bet you thought I had forgotten about this one. I regret to say that I got carried away writing something else, which takes up an unbelievable amount of time and is still ongoing, which is why there is only four chapters to put up instead of my intended five. Hopefully you can find some enjoyment in them though :)_

_This one takes place Pre-Season, though not that much before. I don't really know how this one came about, it was just the first thing I thought of on seeing the word :')_

_As always, I make no profit. I own nothing. _

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><p><strong>6. Curl<strong>

He understood, perhaps a little better than most, the tendency to want that which you never had. But what he didn't understand was why she, so beautiful and perfect already, deigned to change something which was arguably her most striking aspect (and certainly one of his favourites) in a vain quest to achieve what haute-couture dictated was exactly that.

Sam watched, unashamedly enraptured, as Jessica moved the hot irons over individuals sections of her hair; once, twice, transforming wayward curls into a pin-straight style. She suited it straight; it framed her face with a sort of sophistication which its natural constitution could not manage, and bestowed upon her an alluring ambiance right out of the silent movie era. But Sam preferred it curly.

Eyes instinctively drawn toward the corner of the mirror; instinctively drawn to his, she caught him looking and laughed. He smiled sheepishly in return.

"Why?" Sam asked simply, cocking his head to the side, all the better to glimpse the last rays of sunlight fall upon her through the open window which fronted the vanity table. They surrounded her like an angelic aura. _His_ angle. In that light, she reminded him so much of Mom.

"Sometimes it's nice to do something a little different," she shrugged, moving on to the next section. "Besides, it seemed more befitting of the occasion; more sophisticated."

"You're perfect just the way you are," he assured her with feeling.

She laughed girlishly, her cheeks blushing with a beautiful rose tincture.

"It's just for one night."

Even after a year and a half, he could still make her blush, and she still made him nervous. They were the marks of love. A love which would never fade.

He left her at the vanity in order to change into his suit and tie. The first he had ever bought for himself, and the first which ever properly fitted. The dress code for the evening was formal. As high class as one could extend to on a budget.

Sam Winchester was never one for boisterous social events, more likely to be found with a book in hand than a glass, and wild, all-night parties were a thing of somebody else's collage experience. In fact, Dean could have probably credibly claimed to have had wilder times with a six pack in a Poole house. But with the end of the academic year drawing nigh, and in celebration of a perfect score; a feat of no little repute, Jess had convinced him to attend Justin's annual cocktail event.

Justin's parents were exceedingly wealthy and indulged in extravagant year round vacations, leaving the house empty. From what he had heard, it marked a prestigious venue indeed.

Sam moved back into their room, searching through the top drawer of the dresser for a salvageable pair of socks. He disregarded completely the clumsy balled and clearly most recently purchased of the array for fear of disgorging the little velvet box they imbued. Bought two weeks previous, he was waiting for the right time to ask her.

Her amazing golden tresses were now as straight as a seaward horizon, but she still persisted to pass the irons over particular sections, as if dissatisfied with the result.

He sat upon the bed a resumed watching her, having nothing else to do but wait. Her very presence was intoxicating to him; and an eternal torture on his heart, which was bound to navigate the erratic waves of feeling. He didn't think it was possible to be _so_ in love with someone.

"I still wish you would have worn it curly," he whispered, teasing lightly; she looked radiant, as ever. Jessica just smiled long-sufferingly, rolling her eyes dramatically for his benefit.

Sam chuckled. He would be the first to admit that the didn't comprehend the social pressures placed on women to satisfy the ever shifting and controversial ideals of desirability: to look a certain way when everyone was individual, nor their incessant preoccupation and need to satisfy these short-lived credentials. But hey, he grew up in a family which was essentially homeless and placed the restoration of armaments above similar sartorial needs. Clearly, he could have been missing something.

Sam always thought she was beautiful, even when she would insist the adverse. When she neglected make-up for a day of sloth, and wore garments no more flattering than a pair of loose-fitting jeans and an old hoodie of his own, long shrunk in the wash. When she laughed, and her cheeks would dimple; something she was self-conscious about. When she awoke, blinking owlishly through the residual tendrils of sleep, skin warm and lined, hair a mess. When she looked upon others with that innate compassion and a will to help. When her eyes were swollen and red after watching _The Notebook_ for the four-hundred and twenty-fifth time.

Beauty wasn't solely in the skin, it was in the person to; in a form more concentrated and sometimes miss-idendified. And the times when she thought she looked the least presentable, he thought she actually looked the _most_ beautiful. For it was a natural beauty, and entirely her own.

Jessica was his first love. She had breezed into his life like a world-wind of possibility, and affection had been instantaneous. She made him so sure and yet so unsure of himself that any pretentiousness, which sometimes characterises the initial days of love, was rendered obsolete. He had no option but to be completely and irrevocably true to himself, and she loved him anyway. The intellect and the idiot that he was. And there was something about that first love which made it remarkable; having no precedent, and nothing to compare. It was a potent voyage of discovery, about yourself and about them. Not even itself would ever feel so ardently again, as how it felt in that initial instance. They were living a romance, right out of fiction.

Dean had always been the more confident with girls; growing up and even now. He was smooth and charming, while Sam had been crippled with shyness and notably awkward (and perhaps just a little too tall to be cute about it). As the self-proclaimed; 'awesome big brother.' Dean had of course offered his services to the needy cause, in-spite of Sam's protests.

Several decidedly graphic and certainly uncomfortable sessions later, Sam had felt even more insecure for his 'tuition'. It was a few years before he fully comprehended that what Dean had actually taught him about, was lust. Sam was a romantic, Dean was a realist (or so the latter shamelessly maintained.)

One thing Dean's tuition had neglected though, which ironically, might have actually been of some benefit, was the mention of just how _good_ love felt. How it was as integral as breathing. How words were a useless mime, inadequate to its expression … Maybe because Dean didn't believe in it himself.

But though Sam had never lied to her, he had not been entirely honest either. And no matter how close they held each other, there would always be a veil which existed between them; something time had made both tactile and distant. The entities he had seen and hunted. The things which he had intended and done. He would never open her eyes to that world of fears, and he would never go back to that life … but the memory of it persisted, and something told him it always would, like a shadow in the back of his mind.

He gazed unhurriedly at the bedside clock, reading 6:57pm on it's digital display. Justin was opening the doors at seven.

"You know we're going to be late?" He asked mildly. Personally, he wasn't over concerned. Given the choice he would have preferred to spend a night in with Jess, but maybe Justin would be slightly put out.

Jessica just grinned from where she was expertly apply mascara;

"It's a girls prerogative to show up fashionably late," she assured him easily.

"Oh, right," Sam laughed, his heart stuttering slightly as she spun on the stool to face him, finally satisfied with her appearance. She looked stunning, and everyday took his breath away. "And what's my excuse then?"

She alighted with an alluring smile and converged upon him, draping her arms around his neck and folding herself into a position whereby she straddled his legs.

He was intoxicated by the scent of her perfume, the very caress of her skin, warm against his own, and his arms wrapped around her instinctively; drawing her closer and eliciting a wonderfully girlish giggle when he accidentally brushed against a particularly sensitive spot. He kissed her neck tenderly, just once.

"That _you_ are too much the gentleman to leave a lady stranded."

She pulled back slightly, taking his face in her hands. They gazed upon each other so intently that it seemed with just a little more conviction, they could descry the others soul, until they were forced to look away; light-headed with affection.

"And so," she whispered breathlessly, "you stayed."

Without preamble, his lips were moving against hers; a communion of silk, in a rhythm now second nature. They were the steps of an infant dance, yet to attain accreditation; full of passion, intensity and excitement, and yet similarly reserved, hesitant and deferential. In that moment, nothing else in the world mattered, but the gravity which held them fused.

"I love you," he murmured around the motion.

"I love you too."

Finally, regretfully, she drew back. Her lips lingering against his, motionless for an instant. Then, in one fluid movement, she slid off his lap and took hold of the form flattering, midnight blue, evening dress.

"No peeking," she warned playfully, narrowing her eyes shrewdly.

Sam mimed the motion of crossing his heart, which only made her giggle. How in a million chances had he ever won the love of someone so perfect?

They left their small, student-let hand in hand. It's meagre proportions were like a housing of infinite space to their perception, because it was something which was, without exception, entirely their own. If Sam had the world, he would give it to her freely. But it's bestowal would have to wait. One day, though, they would have that white picket fence.

He held ajar her door, as she alighted in the car. Chivalry may have been on the decline, but it wasn't dead yet. The jewel-like detail upon the sweet-heart neck shimmered like so many stars in the approaching dusk.

The drive was quite; a world of content, spoiled by word. Idle clouds strolled leisurely across the sky, painted an iridescent patchwork by the failing rays of sunset. In hue, in constitution, they were love.

Their destination was indeed a spectacle of grandeur. It made even the most flagrant feeling seem small and inconsequential, out-matched by the imposing splendour.

Sam swallowed hard, suddenly nervous, wondering whether an over-abundance or lack of decorum constituted the tone for the evening.

Nevertheless, he slipped his arm around Jessica's waist as they walked soundlessly across the lawns, their way illumined by a procession of ground lights, just blinking into life. In her presence he was happy, wherever they might eventually wind up.

Then, quite abruptly, their was a distant rumble above; the only precognition, for instantly began to fall, small drops of moisture like a mist. It was nothing more than a summer shower; intrusive and brief, but instantly Sam had stripped off his blazer, and held it over her head like a canopy, their pace quickening.

"Every time!" Jessica mumbled with half-hearted exasperation. Sam just smiled.

As soon as they gained the ornate porch, he restored his attire, endeavouring not to appear smug. Though the moisture had barely touched her, the humidity alone had sufficed. All her effort had been for nothing because already her golden locks had began to curl perceptibly again.

In the amber ambiance of the front porch, he lifted a tress with his finger, admiring it appreciatively;

"Looks like I got my wish after all."

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><p><em>Thank you for reading :)<em>

_- One Wish Magic._


	7. Dean: Shot

_Because it's never an enjoyable experience. To the best of my knowladge all of the facts here are true :) But I did get the off the internet ... _

_TeenChester Dean's 17 and Sam's 12/13_

Make no profit, have no ownerage.

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><p><strong>7. Shot<strong>

Growing up Sam and Dean had probably attended close to two hundred schools, under as many aliases and across some thirty-seven states.

In the beginning, when friendships were shallow and easily exchanged, it had been exciting; life on the road. Better than your run-of-the-mill living. Who didn't want to see the world up close? But when even mere acquaintances came to require ever greater pains of time and effort to forge, the practice in itself soon became tedious. Then, they came to resent that, which each time attained they were forced subsequently to leave behind; fading spectres in the rear-view. Until after a while, it all became redundant; the people, the places, ceased to matter altogether, insignificant scenes and walk-on-parts in life's monotonous performance.

But even then, there were rare occasions which broke the mould; beacons of colour in a mutable surround; moments that made them feel alive. Bennett High – Iowa – stood out to Dean particularly for two reasons: Haley Silverman, and because it marked the first occasion that he truly realized the reciprocal extent of brotherhood.

Sam toyed distractedly with the already feathered edges of the single sheet he bore like his own condemnation papers, as he and Dean walked across the parking lot towards the Impala. John was knee deep in some archival research that day, necessitating no means of transportation as the library existed a mere stones throw from there motel. Sam had been delighted.

"Do they hurt?" He asked in a would be off-handed tone, taking care to avoid Dean's eye.

"Of course they don't hurt," was Dean's curt return. His throat had turned abruptly dry and his palms similarly damp; this was not a conversation he was interested in pursuing.

Feeling all the awkwardness of the moment, he licked his lips, just to be doing something. They still tasted like strawberry chap stick … now _that_ was something he was interested in pursuing.

He had dated pretty girls before, but Haley Silverman was … wow, she was something else. And yes, they were real.

"Are they dangerous?" It was said with betraying timidity and still determined avoidance, as if sensing Dean's sudden ill humour and trying not to provoke it, though being unable to suppress his queries.

"For God's sake, Sammy! _No_. Look, whatever horror stories you've heard are all just a load of baloney. It's just kids mucking around trying to frighten you when there's no need to be. We used to do it all the time," Dean barked. He felt irritable and tense, and had the balmy mid-march weather abruptly become stifling or was that just him? He prised the light cotton shirt free from where it had stuck to his clammy skin. _Really_ not interested in pursuing this topic.

Sam's voice was small, and he gazed up at his brother with wide-eyed trepidation;

"There are horror stories?"

Well done, Dean. Well done, he commended himself sarcastically. If there was ever a moment more suited to the action of face-palming, he was yet to encounter it.

Forgoing his own turbulent feelings, in order to absolve Sam's, he took his little brother by the shoulders and resolved the height difference.

"Sammy," he spoke with a calmness that he didn't feel, because there was a part of him, completely Sam-orientated, which worked independently of his state, to offer exactly what his little brother needed. So innate was it that he thought, even stricken dumb, that integral part would forge words from inability, if it was words Sammy needed to hear. "It's just a shot. Thirty seconds, tops, and it'll be over, I promise. It doesn't hurt and it isn't dangerous. There's nothing to be scared of. You don't even have to look."

Dean felt himself blanch but persevered through the weakness with stoicism. No, looking was not an action which should suffer wide encouragement. However, Sam appeared consoled.

"So … you're not scared?" It was said without presumption; a genuine plea for resolve. His brothers word like his bible. If Dean said something was okay, then it was.

"Pfft, 'course I'm not scared," Dean scoffed, jawing Sam playfully, "Your big bro ain't scared of nothing." And then lowering his voice, until only Sam could hear; "did you not see me take that rawhead in Michigan. I like mine extra freaking crispy!"

"Right," Sam rolled his eyes.

He had also been there the night their father had been hauled in for questioning in connection to a rash of brutal murders, and with blood quite literally on his hands.

Dean had insecurities buried deep, and the prospect of losing their father, his role-model and hero, in any sense of the word, scared him more than the elder brother would ever freely admit, and Sam knew it.

His brother was not unconquerable, not indestructible, and one day, Dean would come to realize the truth: that sometimes, it was okay to admit you were afraid. Because fear drove courage, and the two were counter-dependant; meaningless without the other.

Whether Sam persisted with his tirade of questions, Dean knew not, for as soon as the engine growled into life, his attention was determinedly averted towards the road, and the soothing tones of Metalica.

So preoccupied was he that when, in the compact space, Sam became increasingly aware of how the sickly-sweet scent of excessive perfume clung tenaciously to his brothers clothes, which he clarified was; 'really weird,' Dean did not even have the articulate rapidity to boast that he and Haley had made Seven Minutes in Heaven look like the feast of seventy-two virgins. And therefore, could not watch with relish as Sam's ears turned accordingly red.

It strained the credulity of ridiculousness to its absolute extremity, and furthermore, waxed pathetic. Dean Winchester wasn't fazed by many things, and compared to all that he had encountered over the course of seventeen years, this tiny thing shouldn't even rate. At least flying was a legitimate fear; planes crashed, _often_.

Give him horrific injuries; five inch open-fractures; loss of appendage; decapitation; and the convoluted process of a persons entrails transforming into their extrails, and he would neither batter an eyelid nor lose a meal over it. Give him terrifying supernatural encounters; the hot, pungent breath of a werewolf at your jugular; the twisted mind games of a skin walker, forcing you to question even the identity of your family; the arresting stare of a vampire, marking you careless to your own demise, and every time he could still send those sonovabitches screaming back to the bowls of hell, no hesitation.

But so much as _mention_ a hypodermic, and he went to pieces of the spot. He had seen things people couldn't even dream up in their wildest nightmares, and yet the mere thought of that tiny metal cylinder slipping beneath each subsequent layer of skin, as easily as a maggot through the supple flesh of carrion, injecting its toxin into his bloodstream, had him running for the hills.

It would have been laughable, had it happened to anyone besides himself. As it was, however, it was a massive pain in the ass. No-body knew, and he was determined to keep it that way.

How unlucky for him then, that they had rolled into town a week before vaccinations, and John's current case would last just long enough to ensure they would receive them. Someone up there had a sadistic sense of humour.

He could sympathise with Sammy's anxiety. The last time the kid had been taken for a shot was by their mother when he was three months old. He had cried afterwards for two hours straight, inconsolable even to Mary's loving attentions.

In most things it was the fear of the unknown which was the worst. In this, not so much. Dean knew the procedure exactly, and it didn't make him any more willing. In fact, it made him less.

Any thought of concealing the information (and there were still three 'misplaced' report cards idling in the cutlery draws of various motels along the high-way of their life) were prematurely dashed when Sam bolted from the car, permission slip in hand, to assail their father with the same barrage of questions to which Dean had supplied unsatisfactory answers.

Shivering slightly, Dean extricated his own purposely crumpled sheet with little care. Because nothing invited confidence and reassurance like the necessity to gain parental consent to plunge a syringe into their child's arm.

The night passed simultaneously begrudgingly and rapidly; hastening towards an approaching unpleasantry with reluctance, until morning found Sam and Dean treading the pedestrian path to school. And if Dean thought the crisp air would afford him some semblance of inner calm, he was sorely mistaken … of course he was, he grumbled internally; any morning which began with the absence of his (John's) baby, was at a deficit before it began.

"Did you know; immunisation prevents an estimated 2.5 million deaths each year?"

"No," Dean answered flatly, hoping that his obvious disinterest would dissuade Sam from the subject matter that was making his skin crawl.

It didn't.

That was the sixth stomach churning titbit Sam had offered forth that morning. It figured. With everything else that intimidated him, he dived eagerly into the pursuit of research, until that one thing became so familiar that its threatening persona was made negligible, or else the blow was cushioned by fact. So why not – to Dean's quiet dismay – this too.

One day, his brother would take the world by storm, but right now he was taking only Dean's every ounce of self-control, to not throttle him for his intellect and obliviousness.

"Any vaccination typically takes between ten and fifteen years of research, development and testing before being approved and made available to the public at large."

"Wonderful," Dean grouched turned as they onto the main street which the school occupied. It was the 'testing' phase which sat particularly uncomfortably with him, and quite abruptly, he regretted not skipping breakfast.

"Yeah, it is," Sam agreed enthusiastically, clearly delighted with the practice of regurgitating his facts to a participatory audience, even one as unwilling as Dean.

"Vaccines introduce a disabled antigen into the body so that the immune system can produce antibodies against it, thereby creating immunity. So it's actually a misconception that you can contract the disease from having the shot … However, every one in one million people suffer an allergic reaction." Sam shrugged, as if the information was of little concern to him.

Wait … _what?_ Dean drew up short, just inside the gates, forcing his impatient peers to filter around him, as perspiration gathered upon his palms and forehead, and the world seemed to oscillate momentarily. Oh that was just _brilliant._ Exactly what he wanted to hear. He tried to swallow and found his throat obstructed.

"No vaccine is ever 100% effective either. Most routine ones generally result in immunity for around 85-95% of – Dean? Are you okay?"

Five paces ahead, Sam had realized Dean's absence, and now doubled back concerned.

"Dean?" he pressed a little more firmly, in a tone reminiscent of John himself, which he knew Dean would respond to instinctively. The older startled slightly, as if brought from an unpleasant reverie into a worse reality

"What? Fine. Shoe lace was undone," he rushed out with distracted impatience, gazing at his heavy boots as if they had suddenly assumed the properties of the worlds most enthralling enigma.

"You look kind of sick," Sam insisted anxiously, startled by the violent green hue which coloured his brothers clammy skin. "Do you want me to call dad to pick you up?" He fumbled with the second hand mobile for a moment, as if for emphasis.

"No. I'm okay, Sammy, really." He tried to smile, but the gesture betrayed intention and was more akin to a grimace. "Shouldn't have had that burger last night, I guess."

"We had Chinese …"

"Yeah," Dean agreed distractedly, looking beyond Sam at something which must have existed for his eyes only. "Remember what I told you: nothing to worry about, you'll be fine. See you after school." He went to offer Sam's shoulder a bracing slap, but overshot the action completely, and continued walking without even appearing to notice.

Sam watched him go with exasperation, shaking his head. And Dean said _he_ was stubborn.

Worry was the one emotion Dean indulged in indiscriminately, until his nerves were so tightly stretched that, standing lined up in full view of the surgery, waiting for the inevitable panic, he felt like he was going to pass out. He was a hunter for god's sake. This shouldn't be happening.

Right then, he thought the embarrassment might be worth it; anything to get him the hell out. Out of that room and out of getting this pointless vaccination, which wasn't even '100% effective' anyway.

"Dean Winchester."

His usual confident swagger was demoted to a rubber-legged stumble. Should impending doom sound so sugar glazed?

He took his seat beside a woman who must have been around since the dinosaurs roamed free and supported a pair of plum framed glasses; _glasses_! Because there was no better way to put one at ease about having a hypodermic plunged into their subcutaneous skin, than by having a bespectacled biddy, who didn't even look like she had the strength, never mind the accuracy, to push a piece of cotton through the eye of a needle, administer it. Kill me now, Dean begged desperately, spare me the indignity.

He missed her kindly smile, and shunned her attempts at idle conversation. All he could think was; you're about to shove a three inch needle into my arm with possibly disastrous results, _stop_ trying to distract me!

But something was wrong. It was taking too long. And … wait. Was the world supposed to spin like that? He felt concurrently light-headed and heavy limbed, as if he were being acted up by two contesting forces; a puppet to their will. Lights without source formed and reformed iridescent patterns before his eyes, until becoming consumed entirely by an encroaching darkness, which he was helpless to. It forced him into submission and he remembered no more.

"You fainted?" Sam repeated again with disbelief, while John glanced surreptitiously into the rear-view, guarding his amusement.

"_Shut up_, Sam. I didn't faint. I just had a bad reaction to the shot," Dean griped sourly, sinking further into the supple leather folds of the Impala's back seat, and closing his eyes. His ears were still ringing from the unfortunate swooning spell, and he was feeling pretty crappy besides. Oh the embarrassment. As it turned out, it _wasn't_ worth it, he had been given the shot anyway.

"Riiiight," Sam nodded. Dean scowled at his heavy sarcasm.

He had come around in the nurses office, with a cold compress laid across his forehead, knowing immediately what must have happened. The overbearing, white-washed walls and chocking scent of excessive disinfectant had been like epitaphs of shame to further ridicule him.

He had suffered through her ministrations with ill humour, shunning her considerate consolation that he wasn't the first and certainly wouldn't be the last. His pride was wounded enough without her patronization. When he thought his opinion of her could sink no lower, she informed him that his father had been called. He knew just how much John would relish being called away from a job for something a minor as his son fainting.

Maybe, just this once, it was a blessing in disguise that they were skipping out of town in a few days.

John chuckled from the front. These moments with his sons were rare, and usually came only after painful reminders of just how much family meant.

"Ease up on your brother, Sammy. He's nursing a pretty bruised ego." Dean just scowled in response. Wasn't he the invalid here? Where was all the compassion?

Arriving back at their motel, Dean slipped immediately between the folds of his duvet, both because he would avoid the unsympathetic and certainly insensitive glances of his family – which were no more than he himself would have offered forth had the situations been reversed – and because he really did feel lousy. Stupid shot.

He was afforded an hours peace maybe, before the edge of his mattress dipped with a familiar weight.

"Go away," he grumbled into the swaths of his pillow. But Sam, undaunted by his brother sour mood, did not comply.

"Did you know the fear of injections is called; Trypanophobia?"

"Sammy, _please_!" Dean begged. He really couldn't take any more trivia.

"Hear me out," Sam insisted fervently, "and that 10% of the US population alone have it."

That got Dean's attention, and sensing the change in his demeanour, Sam continued quickly.

"Fears _are_ irrational, that's why they're fears, and yeah, maybe to other people who don't share the same irrationality, they seem stupid. To you, maybe_ their_ fears seem stupid. But no matter what people think of you, or even what you might think about yourself, there's always going to be thousands, maybe even millions of people world-wide who can empathise. And if you consider that, suddenly your fear doesn't seem so stupid, does it? Did you know that one in seven people are also afraid of clowns? It's called Coulrophobia." Sam's tone brightened perceptibly at this fact, and Dean felt him shrug.

"You're my big brother, and I'll always look up to you, but even you should know; it's okay to be afraid sometimes and _admit_ that you are afraid. Because fear keeps us human, and without it, how are you supposed to measure bravery? You think dad doesn't get scared sometimes?"

His heart swimming with pride, Dean turned to regard him.

"Thanks, Sammy," he said, the words full of sentiment. The younger grinned.

In all the years Dean had been watching out for him, it seemed he had failed to notice just how quickly Sammy was growing up, it had been happening right before his eyes, and yet he hadn't seen it. And now his little brother astounded him; slipping momentarily and for the first time into the over-large shoes of big brother, left vacated in a moment of self-doubt. Dean had always had his back, but it was only then when he fully comprehended; Sam had his in return.

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><p><em>Thank you for reading :)<em>

_- One Wish Magic._


	8. Sam: Crust

_Dean is such an interesting character: the big brother, the loyal son, and the surrogate mother all rolled into one. In my mind, he always knew how to handle Sam, right from the off. _

_WeeChester. Den is 6 and Sam is 2. _

_Don't own anything. Don't profit._

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><p><strong>8. Crust<strong>

Some things, they say, are sent to try us. And that Sam was a fussy eater was a given right from the off. A continual point of contention for father and son alike, whether it was an aversion to vegetables, later revoked; a strange affinity for foods of the red, yellow and orange persuasion solely; or something as simple as preferring the crusts cut off his PB and J sandwiches. Sammy was determinedly headstrong even at two years old, and John handled every variant quirk in the same manner; cantankerously and incendiary, where gentle persuasion would have undoubtedly yielded more successful results.

Life on the road could quickly become tedious and tempers frayed, vented to the company of those you had had too great an excess of already, without intermission. It was a poor excuse, but it was fact.

Therefore, holing up in their third motel that week alone, after a near continual twenty-four hour drive, none of the Winchesters were in a particularly homoeopathic mood. Exhausted, irritable and cold. It would have been less foolish to provoke a hibernating grizzly into attack, than engage into any sort of exchange with the small family at that present time, and especially to inform them that the policy demanded payment be given up-front.

John opened the door to another third-rate and certainly unwelcoming motel room. How with different fixtures and fittings, with different (and garishly clashing) colour schemes and arrangements did each and every one of them, somehow, manage to look the same? But their budget was becoming scarcer by the day, and if only one thing could be raised in its defence, it was that it offered a roof over their heads which wasn't reinforced metal. The proverb; beggars can't be choosers, certainly rang true in this circumstance.

He hastened to transfer their meagre possessions from the trunk to their new temporary address.

Meanwhile, Dean was left to coax a distressed and sleep deprived Sammy from his car-seat, where he sat whimpering pitifully in his misery. John had needed the stereo turned up to the max, in order to keep his attention directed towards the road, which meant that neither Sam or Dean could sleep, marking the long hours even more irksome than usual. For Dean it had been nothing short of torture, for Sammy, who needed more sleep than his father and brother combined, anyway, it must have been unbearable.

"Come on, buddy. Let's get you out of there."

Dean held out his arms, indicating that he wished to pick Sam up, and waited to see if the toddler would respond in compliance.

Sam didn't hesitate. His feeble whimpers ceased instantly and he threw his his arms up in response, reaching for his brother. His small hands opening and closing with a fervent desperation, as if the promised event wasn't happening expediently enough.

Dean chuckled, deftly releasing the fastenings and lifting the wriggling bundle into his arms; feeling Sam's small hands take purchase of his t-shirt in iron resoluteness. He honestly didn't understand why dad had so much trouble with this.

Ferrying his brother inside, he deposited him on the lumpy, thread-bare sofa, before settling down beside and turning on the old fashioned TV. If the complimentary clock on the sideboard was right, then they could catch some late night cartoons. Not the good ones though; they finished hours ago.

Sam curled into his side, gnawing persistently on his thumb. Dean gently hooked his finger around the digit and pulled it free with a satisfying _pop_, only to have it return the second he relinquished his restraint. Surrendering the fight, he simply pulled Sam onto his knee, wrapped his arms around him and closed his eyes.

Dad was trying to wean Sam off his pacifiers, since they had suffered the misfortune of having been left behind in Dallas. Looking at the digit; shrivelled, cracked and tender, Dean was willing to venture that cold turkey wasn't working out so well.

In a life driven by secrets, lies, defence and protection for the benefit of an ignorant race, the little things, the simple things were somehow lost along the way. Patience was a virtue which had been sullied by the price of mistake. And what John Winchester saw day to day made it ever harder for him to bring compassion home, until a lifetime of military structure had become his norm, anchor and saving grace, in those initial months when her absence was everywhere.

They must have fallen asleep, because the next thing they knew, their farther was calling them with the particular tone of annoyance they recognised as the necessity of repeated command;

"Boys. Food."

They scrambled to take their seats at the unlevel table – Sam boosted up to a comfortable height by two of their pillows – suddenly inexpressibly hungry.

The offering was frugal, and to any other set of siblings would have seemed unappetising; bread bought already stale, toasted under the grill, and slathered liberally with discount peanut butter, no jelly, washed down with tap water, absent of even a hint of juice. But to their abrupt sentiments of starvation, it was a feast.

Dean wasted no time in acquainting his tongue with the texture, completely disregarding the polite customary of eating with ones mouth closed, in order to shovel as much into the space as was humanly possible in the meagrest allowance of seconds. For after all, the toast didn't stay warm for long, and that was one of the best parts. He had already lost valuable minutes.

He had just reached the happy stage of licking the gloopy mass off the roof of his mouth before re-submergence, when he became aware of the discord.

Sam's small whimpers had started up again, though this time they were not merely the plaintive sounds of discomfort, but seemed intent on imparting understanding. In the grips of exhaustion, Sam's limited stock of words had been abandoned for variously pitched, communicant mono-syllables, and John wasn't in the deciphering mood.

"Just eat, Sammy," he said tiredly, and with a hint of annoyance, pushing the plate back towards him. "It's not that bad."

The toddler gave a frustrated moan, because _no-body_ was understanding him; that the problem wasn't the food itself, but it's crispy outer edge which hurt his jaw to chew.

Mimicking his fathers movements in reverse, he pushed the plate away, folding his arms over his rumbling stomach.

"Sam …" that very tone was a warning in itself. "I mean it."

The toddler stared into the care-worn face of his father, imploring him to understand, to make everything right, as only a father could. But doleful eyes found only the sympathy of haunted ones. Having no feasible alternative, Sam dredged up his voice:

"Off," he said emphatically, pointing to the offending outer-rim. When no comprehension was gained; he repeated again with the same inflection; "Off. Off. _Off_."

The sound penetrated John's mind infuriatingly, compelling him to do anything to make it cease.

"Stop it, Sam! For god's sake, can't you just eat!" Desperation donned the cast of anger, driving unnecessary severity. "You're not moving from this table until every bit is gone."

For a moment Sam remained motionless and mute; transfixed, and then the tears began to fall and he wept openly.

Unable to stand the sound, John stepped outside.

He shouldn't have lost his temper, he knew and regretted it, but his youngest son worried him to no end. Already so thin and fragile looking, the fact that he barely ate was a constant cause of concern. He remembered Dean passing through several awkward stages at a similar age, but Mary had dealt with each of those expertly, until he had grown out of them. Now he was left to contend with Sam's alone; stumbling in the dark.

He was restless, on edge. He faced the difficulties of a hunters life by throwing himself into fatherhood; and the difficulties of _that_ by terminating as many evil sons of bitches as he possibly could. It was a balance both precarious and necessary, both cathartic and damaging. And without it, his life fell apart at the seams.

No whisper of a job had reached him in a month. It seemed like every supernatural nasty was taking a hiatus, and wasn't that a comforting notion. His hunting ground was limited also; never more than two hundred miles in circumference from either Jim Murphy's or Bobby Singer's. The only two places in the world he felt safe leaving his sons for the duration.

Their living allowance was scarce with no option of reimbursement. If Sam and Dean had been older, then maybe he could have reasonably justified leaving them for an hour, but not now. John Winchester wasn't a man to willingly ask for help, but this time, he feared he might have to.

Back in the kitchen, Dean soothed his brother softly:

"Sammy, it's okay. I'll make it better," he promised. But the toddler was, for the moment, inconsolable.

Scrambling for his fathers tool bag, Dean sucked in a breath and, ignoring two years worth of warnings, delivered in no uncertain terms, against exactly that which he was about to do, he plunged in his hand boldly, knowing exactly what he was seeking.

For its ornate, inlaid scabbard and silver blade, the knife just looked like a glorified kitchen carver, which was actually quite fitting.

Retrieving it, he sat back at the table and pulled Sam's plate towards him. His brothers sobs tapered off to delicate hiccups at its removal, and instead he fixed his eyes upon Dean with unrestrained interest.

Dean smiled at him confidently, endeavouring to assure him that his wish had been comprehended, even if not by the intended source. He was encourage when Sam gave his gesture a watery return.

Then, angling the bare blade away from him, and handling it in an awkward, unfamiliar fashion, he quickly separated the crusty outer edges from the tender inner of Sam's toast; the only thing which had been preventing him from eating. Simple, really.

For good measure, he quartered the slices also, making them so much the more easier to handle. Then, ensuring that Sam was watching, he swept the offending pieces onto his own plate, before proffering Sam his again. Even then, big brother knew best.

"All gone," he assured happily. "No crusts for Sammy."

He tossed the knife carelessly back into the grubby hold-all, taking a moment to savour the beauty of his own shot, before turning back to his supper, which was by now, stone cold.

"Gone!" Sammy burbled, offering his brother a gummy peanut-butter smile, before chewing contentedly.

Dean's cuts were as rough as any six year old's with a hunting knife they had never wielded could be, but that didn't seem to matter to the toddler as he eagerly reached for another quarter to hold in his left hand.

"That's right, squirt," Dean laughed, ruffling his brothers plentiful locks affectionately; "enjoy."

When John re-entered the cramped motel, it was to be confronted by the pains of his own shame. _Both_ of his sons sat eating happily, because Dean had understood in an instant, that which John hadn't even made the effort to descry. It wasn't that Sam was being overly difficult, just that John wasn't listening. Even then he remembered the trouble the toddlers small teeth had breaking through the reinforced edge. It was w hat his youngest had been trying to tell him all along.

He knew he should have more patience, his sons were not the things he hunted, and in that moment, he resolved to try harder.

Any tenderness which he might have once possessed was stolen from him the same night Mary had been too. But looking upon the scene before him, it seemed that, against impossible odds, that nurturing instinct, which had so characterised her, had found reincarnation in the son who was so much like her.

Brother, son, mother. Dean was their rock – and one day would become the only thing which held them all together.

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><p><em>Thank you for reading :)<em>

_- One Wish Magic._


	9. Jo: Student

_This one was so much fun to write! With the word student, it seemed an automatic response to write something about Sam and his time a collage. But then I got to thinking about Jo. How she never 'fitted in there,' how she was the 'freak with the knife collection' and then this was born. _

_Don't own anything. Don't profit._

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><p><strong>9. Student.<strong>

Hunters, for all their tenacity and fluid identity, were not inconspicuous people. And the children of hunters marked no exception to the precedent, whether they part-took of the life or not, for within them, nestled dormant, a predisposition for prejudice. There was something about that life, about that duty which changed a person, and all those who associated with them – reshaped their most integral elements, and the alternation was irreversible, permanent. Knowledge was sometimes a dangerous and devastating craft to pursue.

So, when Jo graduated high-school with favourable grades, _logically_ the next step was collage, or would have been, given commonplace circumstances, but normalcy had long since disowned the Harvelle's.

As it happened, confrontation had ensured; the dreams and vicarious duties of a daughter pitted against the fierce protection and resistance of a mother, who knew already the poignant labours and hardship of the broken road. And in turn, each were mollified by the indifferent perception of a genius.

A year later, Jo had enrolled and taken it upon herself to excel at classes she didn't really care for, too afraid of disappointing to follow the destination of her heart.

Strong willed she may have been, but not foolish, and certainly not cruel. She knew the dangers hunting presented, she had _lived_ with the consequences for the past fourteen years. So how, after so much heart-ache, so much anguish, did she muster up the courage to make her mother understand that she was honour-bound to follow in his footsteps? Simply put, she didn't. As infrequent as the occasion was, she had complied with her mothers painted vision of the future, which found her here; stifled.

Surprisingly, the hardest part of collage was not the work, but the people; the conversation, the monotony, the self-absorption. It was infuriating.

Demonstrating no concern toward her current tardiness, Jo meticulously cleared away the papers she had been pouring over the previous night. As was her wont, she neglected the responsibility of assignments in favour of research compilation, which sounded studious enough when failing to mention the decidedly obscure subject matter she pursued: the supernatural.

If there was one thing she had learned from the hunters who frequented their family saloon, it was how to put together a file. As time progressed, each hunter developed their own individual traditions and means, but those basic frameworks were derived only from experiences voice. It was a practice Ellen had monitored with stern attention, and one which she was now free to pursue at leisure.

If her conjectures were accurate, and she was certain they were, then a house two towns east was rampant with poltergeist activity, and away to the north, a string of brutal and bloody deaths showed every sign of turning into a werewolf case, though the jury was still out on that one, pending further evidence. When she returned home, she would circulate her findings and see if they generated any interest. If they did, then she would accordingly hand over the case, as she had done so many times previous.

Collage made her feel disconnected from the world in which she had grown up; a vessel cast adrift, lacking both a rudder and a sail. This gave her a purpose again, allowed her to hold onto who she was. What Ellen didn't know couldn't hurt her, or so the working theory went, anyway.

She deposited the unassuming file in the lowest drawer of her desk, taking care to conceal its existence beneath various less incriminating papers.

Then, combing her fingers through he hair, she quickly ascertained that not other oddment of questionable origin tarried in the open, before picking up her worn satchel and journeying belatedly to class.

She took care not to dislodge the welcome mat on her way out, which concealed beneath its girth a salt line.

Removed and somewhat ostracised (in her mind at least) she was just as likely to become the _hunted_ as the hunter; vulnerable and alone. But one thing Jo Harvelle was not, was helpless. She had taken certain … _precautions_, there were safeguards which she had observed. Not least of which was an extensive knife collection which would credit any seasoned hunter with a cause for envy, fastened to the rear inside of her wardrobe. Really it was a blessing in disguise that no-one ever dared to enter her humble abode.

Misogyny was wishful ignorance. Women _could_ do the job.

She walked down the empty corridor with veteran malcontent. Every day the same halls, same faces, same insignificant problems; it was a ritualistic drag.

She had been raised on adventure, on heroism – wilfully exaggerated – on tales of strange and horrific beasts and the eternal unrest of those who nurtured evil intentions. Delighted in such gory accounts, even when Ellen maintained she was too young to hear them. Therefore, she couldn't find it within herself to care whose traitorous best friend had bought the same dress out of spite, which apparently _perfect_ boyfriend was cheating behind his petite blondes back, or who made out with who in a night of drunken marauding. They were driven by consumerism, and yet she was the freak.

Between her lecturers and herself, an understanding had been reached; they didn't ask and she didn't tell. So when she walked into US history – the only class she cared about to some extent – fifteen minutes late, her professor (whose name she had never even strained herself to learn) didn't spare her a second glance, just proffered a sheet, which she accepted wordlessly.

In a sea of students she was visibly invisible.

A pop quiz. Jo's spirits lifted momentarily. She possessed a particular knack for remembering dates which proved indispensable given any similar task. And if nothing else then at least it would while away half an hour in relative interest.

She took the only remaining seat to the right of Carmen Jade, who expressed her opinions of Jo with particular articulation, ignoring the disparaging glances her untimely entrance earned.

The instant she sat, Carmen, without preamble pulled her chair to the extreme left of the desk, widening the interceding distance between them to its limit.

Jo rolled her eyes at the childishness of the gesture, before extracting two pens and turning her attention toward the task with the closest relation to eagerness she had felt in a week. She understood. She was different, beyond their means of identification, and that was what intimidated them.

While she considered, she turned the second of the pair or writing implements over and over again in her left hand. Poor substitute as it was; it permitted her a clarity of ordered thought that the absence of any such tool denied; a habit which had began in emulation, and now endured in earnest. It had been a quirk of her fathers, subconscious, so it seemed.

Each night, he would pour over a series of hand written papers, spread liberally across the dining table, twisting and tossing a dagger in his left hand as he perused. Even while reading, he did not miss a beat.

Then, one night, she had taken to had a crayon, and climbing upon his lap, sat and watched enraptured, before attempting the same series of motions herself. He had gave up his work simply to watch her, smiling all the while. After many nights of practice, she finally mastered it. And then, two months later, he had never came back. The dagger passed to her, and later she had it engraved; three initial. His.

It was for this cold shape that her fingers longed. Some girls religiously carried make-up purses in their bags, Jo carried a weaponry relic, steeped in sentimentality. Different values, worlds apart. But despite idle musing, she could not extract the harmless instrument without widespread pandemonium and melodrama, and possibly expulsion … On second thought, however, maybe she was being overhasty in her discretion.

Carmen's hand, as harsh as biting winter, came out of no-where and pinned Jo's wrist roughly against the table, forcing the second of her Biro's to cartwheel into the air, coming to land five feet away.

"_Stop it_!" the brunette hissed acidly.

Rather than engaging in open retaliation, Jo opted for subtlety. Smiling sweetly as Carmen returned her attention to her own quiz, she began to tap her foot in a persistent rhythm against the floor, just loud enough for her tempestuous fellow, solely, to hear. Her efforts were rewarded instantly. So maybe today wasn't a total waste of time after all.

Noon found her sitting alone beneath the shadows of an Elm tree, watching the world go by with regret. The last thing she pretended to need was companionship, but in an isolated reality where vapid popularity was tantamount to currency, she found herself an eternal pauper. She was unhappy, but the toll was worth it so see her mother smile. Though, she knew one day, that wouldn't be enough to prevent her.

In her experiences of collage, she generally found the guys to be less judgemental; more accommodating, and so she gravitated toward the comedians. For, after all, she had been raised in a world for the most part populated and governed by men.

Meanwhile, those of her own gender seemed daily to take offence at her limited sartorial wear. They regarded her jeans and high-sleeve tee's with not only indignation, but derision, outrage and aghast. She was not naive enough to concern herself over their unreasoned prejudice, but that didn't mean that their constant hostile appraisal didn't make her feel somewhat self-conscious, and certainly defensive.

Three months worth of plaintive endurance was punctuated with single, insignificant interactions, which lent nothing to friendship or familiarity. She was on the outside, looking in.

Each faced that passed turned away from her direction, held a memory, even if only acknowledged by one of its confidants, an unspecified period of shared existence, a moment of meaning, but yet everyone of their patrons ignored her. Because she was different, and people instinctively mistrusted that which they didn't understand.

She could name all of them who passed:

Isabell Monteegh – the girl who had poured out her heart to the world in their first week away from home. Moved by the intensity of her grief and equally afflicted by homesickness, Jo had sat all night with her on the steps of their high rise apartment building, offering condolence and comfort.

Dwight Edwards – she had hustled him out of $50 in a Polka game that was rigged from the start. Ash had taught her to count cards as soon as she was old enough to count, and the reciprocal dishonesty was worth the satisfaction of seeing a serial cheater bested in his own game of choice.

Chelsea and Michael Greeves – computer hacker extraordinaire's, whose inflated self worth and assurance would have humbled even Ash. The former of whom managed to get the three of them locked in the I.T suite for six hours during a fire drill. Apparently in their world, genius left little room for common sense. She had never learned more about a person, nor disliked them quite so rapidly, than she did in that temporary incarceration.

Andrew Chambers – who had been foolish enough to make a pass at her while drunk … Okay, maybe she understood his now determined aversion, she _had_ injured his pride, and in more ways than one. Without doubt, walking must have been a painful venture for him in the next several days proceeding.

Ivy Green – who she had been partnered with recently in chemistry, and who among the iridescent vapours had confessed to a stranger the details of her brothers long standing illness, which just that week had suffered an abrupt decline. Just needing to tell _somebody_.

To these people, she remained nothing more than an acquaintance once met, while, conversely, each of them had in turn, touched her life for better or worse.

She had tried, honestly she had albeit, more for Ellen's sake than her own. But the reality was undeniable, inescapable; she did not belong here in their world, just as they would never belong in hers. The two would never conform, never run parallel, never meet. They were as opposed as the sun and the moon.

That night when she phoned home, she feigned optimism and cheer, as she did every other.

Her mom had convinced her to go to school in the hopes that it would turn her head from hunting. But her perfect vision had rendered quite the adverse effect, because now Jo was only more certain than ever before. Except, she couldn't find the words to tell her. A lie was still a lie, even when told to protect someone, but maybe, at least, it was a righteous one?

They had agreed; six months – a trial period. She could have told them after a week that it was never going to work.

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><p><em>Thank you for reading :)<em>

_- One Wish Magic._


End file.
